


Listen and Silent are Spelled with the Same Letters

by MsThunderFrost



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Blood, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Communicating, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Love Confessions, M/M, Minor Injuries, Oblivious Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-26 10:02:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22475452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsThunderFrost/pseuds/MsThunderFrost
Summary: "Geralt, are you... okay? You haven't seemed yourself as of late." Jaskier frowns, worrying his bottom lip as the Witcher steadfastly avoids his gaze, choosing instead to focus on the broken branch he'd been slowly whittling down into some sort of spear over the last hour and a half. His dinner, a hearty lamb stew that Jaskier was actually quite proud of (even if Geralt had done all the hard, bloody work), has long-since grown cold at his side."Fine." He grunts, as he works his knife in smooth, confident strokes. It's the first time the bard has heard the other's voice in almost a week, and though relief floods him at the sound, he cannot help but note all the ways in which it sounds... different. Like he's given up attempting to hide just how not 'fine' he really is.AKAGeralt realizes that Jaskier is the only person in the world who actually stops tolistento him.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 28
Kudos: 1091
Collections: Best Geralt, Wasn't Quite Expecting This (But I Loved It)





	Listen and Silent are Spelled with the Same Letters

"Geralt, are you... okay? You haven't seemed yourself as of late." Jaskier frowns, worrying his bottom lip as the Witcher steadfastly avoids his gaze, choosing instead to focus on the broken branch he'd been slowly whittling down into some sort of spear over the last hour and a half. His dinner, a hearty lamb stew that Jaskier was actually quite proud of (even if Geralt had done all the hard, bloody work), has long-since grown cold at his side.

"Fine." He grunts, as he works his knife in smooth, confident strokes. It's the first time the bard has heard the other's voice in almost a week, and though relief floods him at the sound, he cannot help but note all the ways in which it sounds... _different_. Like he's given up attempting to hide just how _not_ 'fine' he really is. 

Jaskier cocks his head to the side, as if wondering how best to go about this. Finally, he settles upon, "Do you want to know something?"

A sigh, "I've a feeling you're going to tell me, regardless of my answer." 

"I don't think that you're particularly antisocial." The bard says, "I think... In many situations, I'd even venture to classify you as _diplomatic_. When you _do_ speak, you've almost always carefully considered the potential consequences of your words. You're hyper-aware of how the world percieves you, how one little misstep could mean the difference between a bed for the night and being stoned." He licks his lips, his mouth suddenly unbearably dry. "And it hurts you when people don't--_won't_\--listen to what you have to say."

The corners of the Witcher's mouth turned down in the beginnings of a frown. He should've known that no good would come of telling the bard about Renfri. But seeing as the bard had latched onto Geralt's side like a bloody leech, refusing to leave him be until he remedied the Witcher's so-called 'image problem', he'd decided that the stories the bard spread about him in the dark corners of nameless, seedy little taverns should at _least_ be accurate. And... well, there was no real point in denying the truth, was there? Stregobor, Renfri... they'd all hurt him. He's a Witcher, he kills _monsters_. Renfri had had so much potential. If she had just _listened_ to him and _left _Blaviken, if she hadn't forced him to _choose_. If that damned wizard hadn't turned around and betrayed him, after he'd been left with no choice but to do exactly what he'd wanted all along. If that little girl hadn't told him to leave as her kinsman cursed and spat and threw _rocks_ at his back... No, Geralt doesn't talk much. What's the point, when even when you speak, you're still invisible--a looking glass that only serves to reflect the desires of those around you? 

He's a Witcher, a _tool_. He serves a specific purpose to the community. You wouldn't use a hammer to clean a beer mug, and you wouldn't keep a Witcher as a best friend. It just... doesn't work. And after decades of being overlooked, ignored, _used_\--it eventually becomes second-nature to expect that sort of treatment from... well, everyone. He's not used to having a... Jaskier. How on earth was one meant to define their relationship, anyhow? They're not friends. At least, he doesn't _think_ that they are. He's never really... had friends, but something low in his gut tells him that that title isn't quite right. But Jaskier, he could prattle on for _hours_ about everything and nothing, barely pausing long enough to draw enough breath to sustain his fragile human lungs, but whenever it appears as though Geralt has something to say, he stops and he _listens_. And it's so much more than a passive nod and smile as he anxiously awaits his turn to speak again, the words flying right over his pretty little head. He _wants_ Geralt to speak. He _wants_ to hear what it is that the Witcher has to say. And that's... uncomfortably new for him.

Like now. To be honest, there hadn't been any particular reason as to why he'd kept his silence over the past couple of days. Sometimes, he just didn't feel like talking. Other times, anything that he wanted to say wasn't worth the energy it would take to actually say it. Or he didn't think, even with careful consideration, that he'd be able to convey the words in a way that the intended audience would understand what it is that he meant. He bites down on the inside of his mouth, his thoughts drifting back to Jaskier and the exact nature of their relationship. So they _weren't_ friends. But they were... _close_. Fuck, they slept in the same bedroll most nights. And the bard had had enough opportunity to observe him to make some frighteningly accurate observations as to his personality. And he trusted the bard not to stab him in the back (and not just because the bard absolutely abhorred violence, and blood, and--)... Geralt's eyes widen as the knife slips and cuts deep into the meat of his thumb. It starts to bleed almost _immediately, _but he's not thinking about the severity of the wound because--

"I love you?" He says, and it comes out awkward, not unlike a question. But it has Jaskier coughing and spluttering, his face red and his lungs desperate for air, as if he'd just finished a particularly long run. They stare at each other for a moment, and it's difficult to tell who looks more confused... or frightened.

"I... I'm sorry. Would you mind repeating that? I couldn't have possibly heard that correctly..." Jaskier swoons a bit, looking like he might keel over into the dying embers of the fire at any second.

There's no hesitation this time around, "I love you." He repeats, somehow managing to look ethereal and majestic and just... downright _beautiful_ as he continues to bleed all over the damn place without a care. "I think I... I think I have for awhile, and I just never realized until..." _until I realized that you're the only one who truly listens--truly _understands_\-- me._

"Geralt, I..." cornflower blue eyes blow wide when they land upon the bloody mess that is Geralt's hand, and suddenly the topic of the conversation takes a dramatic twist. "Holy mother of the gods, Geralt--what in the hell did you do to your _hand_?" He's already closed the distance between them to begin to inspect the damage, grabbing Geralt's wrist in his lithe, calloused fingers and turning it over and over until... okay, that was _definitely_ a gag, no more blood for Jaskier--

Geralt takes his hand back, binding his thumb tight in a mostly-clean handkerchief before responding, "It's just a little scratch."

"A little scratch? _A little scratch_?! Geralt, I could see _bone_." Jaskier keens, "I know that that's your super-macho way of trying to tell me not to worry, but do us both a favor and at least admit to the severity of the wound before you try to brush it off as nothing." Geralt's stomach manages to twist itself into pretty little knots as he processes Jaskier's words. Even seconds away from fainting at the sight of... admittedly, quite a bit of blood, he still manages to understand exactly what it is that Geralt is trying to say. He _listens_. 

"It'll be fine in a few hours." Geralt reminds him, his tone surprisingly... gentle. A moment passes in silence as the two study each other carefully. 

Finally, Jaskier clears his throat, "J-Just, ah, for the record? I love you, too."

The Witcher has to tamp down the urge to smile as he grabs the bard's wrist with his uninjured hand and drags him up into his lap, "Good."

Jaskier bristles, "Could you have _possibly _come up with a less-romantic response? The things I have to put up with around here," but for all the listening that Jaskier does for him, the Witcher thinks he ought to repay him in kind--and he can hear the unspoken words that fill in the gaps between the lines, can recognize the sarcasm, the fondness, the _love_.

He drags the bard in for a kiss, a brutal clash of teeth and tongues and lips--it is by no means their first kiss, nor will it be their last, but there's something undeniably sweet about this kiss in particular, despite the harsh way it originated. For the first time, Geralt has found someone who truly _sees_ him, who treats him like he's something _more_ than the monsters he hunts, something precious and valuable and worthwhile. His opinions have value and worth, and deserve to be heard, and respected. And Jaskier would gladly sit and listen for as long as the other cared to speak. Geralt had never been particularly verbiose, that is true. And he'd kept his stoic silence for so long, he didn't forsee that changing. But it was enough to know that, when he _did_ have something to share, there is someone willing to listen, without interruption, or judgment, or... well, _anything_ else. He's not sure what he'd done to deserve Jaskier, but as the bard draws away from their kiss to whisper his name in a breathless near-moan, his face flushed and his eyes needy... he decides it best to not look a gift horse in the mouth. 

**Author's Note:**

> This is... a total vent-fic. Since... October, maybe? I've been having some stress with a person interrupting me, talking over me, acting like I'm invisible, guilting me into letting them talk, etc. in a server that I'm part of and I'm kinda just... over it. It's totally killed any desire I have to write for that specific pairing, or hang out in that server, so yeah... I'm totally projecting onto Geralt right now. Because nothing is more annoying and upsetting than getting treated like you’re invisible and your ideas/opinions aren't right/good enough.


End file.
